


Reassure

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Series: Longitudinal Cohort [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bit Rough, Bottom Sherlock, D/s, Idiots, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, They love each other so much, Top John, a lot of love, and sometimes need reminding that it's real, bit of angst, but they're so in love, i found a way to have them take a shower first!, john is kind of a trashcan, maybe? - Freeform, sherlock is very careless, the thames smells bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 10:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4872793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Tell me if—”<br/>“I know, John.  Please,” Sherlock turns his face into the Union Jack pillow and wriggles his bum, just a little.  Possessiveness and pent-up grief and fear flare again in his chest and his groin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reassure

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. Porn.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked, because I am An Island and also a lazy piece of shit JUST LIKE SHERLOCK.
> 
> Also, SHAMELESS PROMOTION: follow me on tumblr if you are so inclined. [whimsicalethnographies](http://whimsicalethnographies.tumblr.com/)

The cab ride back to Baker Street is quiet and tense. Sherlock is sitting still and rigid beside John, the muscles of his thigh tense under John’s steel grip. John glances at him briefly out of the corner of his eye; the Yard-issued sweats are two sizes too big and hang off him, and his hair is drying frizzy and haphazardly without product.

At least they were able to shower there. John can still smell their wet clothes, packed away in tied plastic bags on the floor of the cab. He doesn’t know how any service will be able to get the smell of the Thames out of a wool Belstaff. Anger and fear and unreleased grief flare hot and tight in his chest and his grip on Sherlock’s thigh tightens. Sherlock jumps a bit and hisses through his teeth, but while John loosens his grip in response, he doesn’t apologize. Every muscle in his body is coiled tight, pulled taut as a violin string. His ears are buzzing but he tries to breathe deeply, around the ball of tight heat in his chest. It doesn’t help.

Another close call, not nearly as close as others, but close enough. A low-level criminal, a piece of garbage and a gunshot. A grunt and a splash. John’s heart ramming up into his throat before his dove straight into the Thames after Sherlock. Frantic searching in muddy, oily water as Sherlock struggled against a water-logged wool coat.

This time there was no gunshot wound. There really weren’t any injuries, aside from Sherlock’s pride. But there have been many wounds before, too many instruments that have pierced and crushed Sherlock’s body and almost stolen his life, some John has seen and some he hasn’t. He relives them every time there’s a close call like this, and wonders if he’ll wake up again in Sherlock’s bed like those first few days after he jumped, alone.

The cab stops outside Baker Street. Sherlock looks at John, questioning, but all John does is remove his hand and nod towards the door. Sherlock wordlessly gets out of the car while John throws some bills at the driver and grabs the heavy bags of wet clothes to follow. Sherlock fumbles a bit with the key at the door; his fingers are still cold and clunky from the river—their showers were brisk and not very warm—but he gets it open by the time John reaches his side. John shifts both bags to his right hand and very purposefully puts his left on the small of Sherlock’s back, pressing but not pushing. Reestablishing contact and presence.

Mrs. Hudson doesn’t rush out to greet them; it’s late, and John is grateful as he guides Sherlock up the staircase. Neither has said a word to each other since John fished him out of the Thames.

When they reach the flat, John drops the heavy bags to the floor and flicks the lights on. The flat smells like how it did when they ran out the door that morning; tea and rosin and kerosene, and a lingering smell of bacon that John had *just* finished frying when Sherlock burst out of the bedroom door yelling, “I’ve been summoned, John!”

The familiar scent of home soothes John’s nerves, but just a bit. He needs something else right now. He clicks the lock on the door and turns back to the room. Sherlock, bless him, is waiting.  
He’s bent over the arm of the sofa, plush arse in the air. He’s pulled the gray sweats down, but not entirely, revealing just the round curve of his buttocks and perineum. His white skin glows a warm, champagne pink in the warm light of the lamp, and the soft, sparse hairs that run up his cleft look more auburn than black in the glare. John’s mouth waters and most of the heat in his chest drops straight to his groin. In two brisk strides he’s standing behind Sherlock, his cock straining obscenely against the flimsy material of his own sweatpants.

“I’m not mad, sweetheart,” John reaches out and squeezes one plump cheek, pressing his fingers into soft flesh. Sherlock, for all his resilience, bruises like a peach, and will have five John-shaped fingerprints on his arse tomorrow.

“I know.”

They’ve done this before, after particularly close calls. The first time, several years ago now, had been terrifying and exhilarating for both of them. John had been confused after, scared of himself and how he had roughly backed Sherlock against the wall, biting at his mouth more than kissing him, then turning him around and entering him crudely without any semblance of tenderness or his usual consideration during lovemaking. Sherlock’s acquiescence had been unnerving, the way his fingers grasped at John’s rough hands, pulling them closer as they pressed bruises into his flesh.

_“I’m sorry,” John breathed into the slick skin of Sherlock’s back. They were both shaking with the effort of staying upright after nearly simultaneous, gut-wrenching orgasms. “I’m so sorry, Jesus…Sherlock, did I hurt you? Are you alright?”_

_“Yes, John,” Sherlock sighed, reaching up to clasp his hand with John’s where it was gripping his chest. His body was still twitching and pulsing around John’s softening cock. “I’m alright.” And Sherlock, who either saw nothing or absolutely everything, made the whole situation crystal clear to John. “We’re alright.”_

_John kissed his love and relief into the scars and divots on Sherlock’s back, one finger pushed into the pock of the bullet scar on his chest._

“Tell me if—”

“I know, John. Please,” Sherlock turns his face into the Union Jack pillow and wriggles his bum, just a little. Possessiveness and pent-up grief and fear flare again in his chest and his groin. John uses both hands to part Sherlock’s buttocks and his mouth waters. He drops to his knees behind Sherlock and swipes his tongue up his cleft, from perineum to the base of his spine. John swirls his tongue around the furl of Sherlock’s tight pink hole, gently nibbling and sucking at the crinkled skin. Sherlock smells and tastes different; his skin is still cold and he smells like cheap, locker-room issued soap. Nothing like the warm, musky scent of arousal mingled with expensive, basil-lemon body wash he’s used to. The alien sensations make John’s gut clench in distress again, and he sucks harder, lapping against soft skin in what will be the only cursory tenderness of this experience until it’s over.

When Sherlock starts to gasp and wriggle against the arm of the sofa, John pulls his mouth off his hole, now loosened and slick with saliva and bites his left buttock, leaving another mark right under his fingerprints. Soft hair tickles John’s chin. Sherlock’s skin is starting to warm, to feel less strange against John’s face, but the primal need to mark and claim and reassure is still there. Because that’s what this is, what Sherlock had recognized that first time, when John spun him against the wall of Baker Street and fucked him hard as if the world was ending. After spending so much time apart, yearning, after grieving a death, far too many brushes with death, and then finally, finally belonging to each other, John needs to remind himself after coming close, again.

He needs to remind himself that Sherlock is here, and alive, and his, not rotting in the cold ground or struggling for life in a cold hospital room or completely out of reach only a few feet away in their sitting room. Sherlock is warm, and alive, still, and he’s alright and he’s John’s.  
Wordlessly, John pulls away and stands. One hand fishes under the sofa cushion for the lube (one of many bottles stashed around the flat) while the other reaches into his sweats, pulling his hot, heavy cock out. It springs free, swollen and obscene and wet at the tip, and John can barely wait a few more moments while he presses two fingers into Sherlock’s spit-slick arse, the muscle clenching and twitching around the invasion. Sherlock doesn’t make a sound as John quickly scissors his fingers, but his hips jerk when John twists his fingers to press briefly into his prostate.

Then John can’t wait any longer, so he roughly pulls his fingers out and slicks his cock, dribbling a bit more lube over Sherlock’s twitching anus, already looking raw and red from the brief invasion of John’s fingers. He lines himself up and enters Sherlock’s body in one hard thrust, exhaling hard as tight, clutching heat envelopes his throbbing cock. This is familiar, this is home. This is his.

John pauses for a moment when he’s fully seated, waiting while Sherlock’s body twitches and pushes against him, fighting the sudden intrusion after a barely perfunctory preparation. After a brief count to ten, John wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s sharp hipbones and pulls back, then thrusts hard and rough. Sherlock gasps and grunts, then begins a slow, steady whine into his pillow as John sets a punishing pace.

The clutching heat of Sherlock’s body as John moves in him, hard and deep, slowly wipes his mind blank and soothes his frayed nerves. The sharp burning in his chest begins to dissipate, replaced by a molten heat than settles at the base of his spine and snakes down his limbs. He can feel Sherlock’s heartbeat from the inside, feel every gasp and moan rise rumble through his body as he moves his hands up to press under his ribcage, fingers digging tight into slick skin. John finds the small divot just under his sternum and presses his thumb into it, hips snapping faster. He knows this must be painful for Sherlock, fast and hard and unprepared, but he also knows he’s enjoying it, by the arch of his back under the gray sweatshirt and the way his feet are scrabbling against the floor, fighting to stay up and flush against John as he thrusts.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John growls, hands moving around to push down into his back, hard, as he downright plows into Sherlock. The liquid heat is glowing hotter, settling and sparking at the base of his spine and in his testicles. He’s going to come, soon, buried deep the lush heat of Sherlock’s body, twitching and warm and alive, and his, his, but for all the brusqueness and mercilessness of this coupling, he absolutely won’t let Sherlock go unsatisfied. Sherlock is moaning and grunting into the pillow, his fingers digging into the worn leather of the sofa as he lets John fuck his way to reassuring that he’s alright and here and alive, once more.

John reaches around between the sofa cushions and Sherlock’s body, groping down to palm his swollen cock through where the flimsy material of the sweats are still caught on his abdomen. Sherlock bucks and groans as John squeezes, shifting to press his knee into the arm of the sofa to give himself more purchase to pound into Sherlock’s body. He hears Sherlock whine low in his throat and feels the telltale twitching and clenching around his cock, then John’s mind goes blissfully blank as the heat in his gut expands then contracts and he comes hard inside Sherlock’s very warm, very alive body.

John collapses against Sherlock’s back, still palming him through his pants and rocking lightly while the last shivers of their orgasms leave their bodies. John pulls his hand out from under Sherlock’s body and reaches to push up his sweatshirt, revealing milky white skin that is littered with pink gashes and divots. He reaches back around and finds Sherlock’s bullet wound, pressing his palm against it while his mouth starts to brush and sweep over the scars marring Sherlock’s skin as he shakes beneath him.

“Sherlock,” John whispers, gently sucking and kissing his ruined flesh. He hates those marks, hates the mark on Sherlock’s chest, hates what they represent and how close he came to losing Sherlock so many times. But at least now he gets to do this; John can kiss and love every mark after reminding himself that Sherlock is here, and alive. The tight fire in his chest and tension is his muscles has loosened, considerably, and is slowly being replaced by that warm softness that follows a particularly satisfying shag.

“Are you alright, John?” Sherlock asks after a few moments, shifting and wriggling. They are still slumped uncomfortably over the edge of the sofa.

“Mmmm,” John presses his nose against a particularly nasty cigarette burn, breathing deeply (Sherlock’s skin is sweaty and he’s starting to smell more like Sherlock than cheap Yard soap) before he swipes his tongue over it one last time. John turns his head and rests his cheek against Sherlock’s spine and listens for a few moments. He can hear the steady thud of his heart as it slows to normal, and the whistle of air in and out of his lungs. It’s incredibly calming and reassuring to hear the sounds of life in Sherlock’s body. “Yeah, love. Think so. You alright?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock practically purrs, his back vibrating against John’s face. “But, the arm of the sofa is rather digging into my thighs.” He shifts slightly.

John chuckles against warm, sweaty skin and presses his hands into the cushions. “Sorry, darling. Here…” He pushes himself up and off Sherlock, his softening cock making a wet, squelchy sound as it pulls out of Sherlock’s arse. “Up we go,” John stands and reaches down, cradling Sherlock’s rib cage as he shifts him up so he’s fully on the sofa. Sherlock flops bonelessly, then settles back down, resting his head on his forearm and snuffling softly. John loves him like this: warm and sated, and soft around the edges. His normally milk-white skin has a soft, rosy glow.

“Here, love,” John kicks off his sweat pants and pulls his sweat shirt over his head, then leans over to tug Sherlock’s shirt over his head. He grumbles good-naturedly, but raises his arms for John to tug then settles back into the sofa, folding his long arms under his chest. John pulls off his sweats and tosses them aside, and his gut clenches as Sherlock’s legs splay wide. His tight hole glistens with John’s come, and is a charming, puffy pink from such a rough coupling. John has to fight the urge to push his ejaculate back inside that very warm, very alive body and instead crawls over the arm of the sofa, draping himself over Sherlock’s long body. The softness of his belly fits perfectly in the small of Sherlock’s back. “You sure you’re alright, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock huffs, almost sounding exasperated, but he reaches for John’s left hand and pulls it up under his chin.

“Just checking,” John noses at the sweaty curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. He settles his cheek against the soft skin. “I don’t know what comes over me, love.”

“Sometimes,” Sherlock runs his thumb over the simple silver ring that won’t ever leave John’s finger. “I think after…everything…sometimes, you need a reminder. Reassurance. Affirmation…” Sherlock’s voice trails off into silence, but John understands the things he’s not saying. They always hang so loudly in the air of the flat: deception, loss, far too many close calls than either likes to ever think about for any significant amount of time. Both their bodies are riddled with scars, they both still have nightmares and wake up with phantom pains from long-healed wounds.

But they’re both alive. They’re both so very alive.

“I know you’re right,” John chuckles.

“Obviously.”

“You need to be more careful.”

“This was hardly my fault, John.”

“Regardless, you need to be more careful.” John kisses the knobby vertebra that pokes out at the base of Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock merely grunts, then shivers. “Cold.”

“We could go to bed.”

“Tired.”

“You’re so fucking lazy,” John scolds, but he reaches up to pull the afghan on the back of the sofa down. He manages to one-handedly (Sherlock is still holding his left hand hostage under his chin) drape it over their bodies. “Don’t complain to me when your shoulders lock up tomorrow.”

“Mmmmm.” Sherlock’s body relaxes under John’s, goes perceptively limp, and John knows he’s finished conversing for the night.

“Love you.”

“Love you, too, John.”

It’s very warm under the wool afghan.


End file.
